Soon, I will go into the accolades about the two weeks I spent roaming with family, but I need a while to let it all sink in, to form the memories into what they will be. It is a thankless task, reviewing photos and erasing the least desirable aspects surrounding that moment of that day.
I promise though, good stories are coming, after this rant...
Ramblings from 12 June 2015
The loss of wonder frightens more than the disappearance of innocence.
When the vast creation of manly creations fails to interest, a part of humanity is lost.
Trying to combat the jade doesn't work. I've tried. I stumble through the most beautiful museums of the world, only to find myself complaining, hating.
No, the issue lies not with a lack of enthusiasm but the crush of others sucking it away. Crowded through hallways, restlessly pushed onwards, I am unable to take pleasure in the glories.
The pace forbids discovery. The drone of a guide suppresses the possibility of a musical accompaniment. I will not remember these steps through the Vatican.
I have associated notes with other art, with corridors, with marble. Recalled to mind in innocuous moments, the memory continues unabated years after the shadows faded in the winding halls of the Musée du Louvre. When did the light turn to orange as a band of horses stomped?
The guilt of the Catholic Church sinks into my discontent as I wonder about the morality of critiquing an experience while I am still shuffling through it.
Even the security rushes you, presses you closer to a sacred chapel defamed by an irreverent populace. The idea of holy no longer shimmers through the air here, only the stale stench of hundreds together.
In a corner of solitude, a surly tourist explains he has not taken a photo. The guard knows otherwise, and forces the man to follow to an unknown. The solitude becomes complete as I exchange the chatter for music. Next to me are fellow seekers of solitude. We smile to each other, but I am the only one who stays. One by one, the others leave. They smile at friends, at humans who look like them in tennis shoes and fanny packs.
The foulard on a stick, held by my cattle herder is within sight now. I'm watching it pass. I know I must follow and be crowded once more against the ever angering sea of skin.
Later, I realize that the creation of the universe, God’s touch to man, was within my sight. I didn’t notice it through the tousled head. I did take note of the benches though. I did wonder how the leaders of a billion people fit comfortably into this room.
